


picture it soft

by eighties



Series: twice as many stars [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Magic Reveal, Summer, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25115551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighties/pseuds/eighties
Summary: They leave Camelot just as dawn touches the flush-green hills, the sun turning everything golden.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: twice as many stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877524
Comments: 50
Kudos: 257





	picture it soft

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all. this is the product of last night's insomnia. we love to see it. 
> 
> title's from mitski's [strawberry blond](https://open.spotify.com/track/3eGsNpXzcb1BDkfSJI54NY?si=YOavYDnWTjm2cOfjf1sYKg), 'cause i wasn't going to write summer yearning without quoting the queen of pining herself.
> 
> unbeta'd.

+

“Merlin.”

It’s Arthur’s voice, barely above a whisper, that pulls him out of sleep. His eyes flutter open, searching the hushed, still-dark of his room. Arthur, fully dressed, stands at his bedside, his eyes shining in the dim light.

“You’re dressed,” Merlin slurs, sleep-dazed.

“You’re always so observant, Merlin.” His voice is flat, lifeless. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

Arthur’s words, distant but sharp, cut straight through him. He jolts up, his blanket sticking to his heat-damp skin. “What?” he asks, panicked. “You mean—Sire, _Arthur,_ you said you wouldn’t banish me. You can’t—”

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses, crowding forward. “Shut _up_. Someone could hear.”

“Gaius already knows.”

There’s a moment, a beat. “’Course he does,” Arthur sighs. “Seems like everyone knew but me.”

Arthur’s far from the last person to learn of Merlin’s magic, but Merlin doesn’t have it in him to argue. They’ve argued enough, this last week, sharpened their teeth and bled their hurt all over the castle. Arthur stewed by himself, quietly furious, no doubt his father’s son. Merlin ached and ached and tried not to step on Arthur’s toes as he came to terms with Merlin's betrayal. Meanwhile, Merlin's worry swallowed up everything until he could think of nothing else; he thought constantly of Arthur turning him in or forcing him to leave Camelot. Worse, he thought of Arthur letting him stay, but reassigning him to another part of the castle, never speaking to him again. Never _looking_ at him again.

“I wanted to tell you,” Merlin says. It’s the truth; there were times it took everything in him _not_ to tell Arthur. His fear always held him back. 

Another sigh floats across the groggy, early-morning dark. “I know,” Arthur answers, and he doesn’t sound happy, but he doesn’t sound angry, either. Mostly, he just sounds tired. “I’m not going to banish you, Merlin. Just—get dressed. I need to get out of this bloody castle.”

+

They leave just as dawn touches the flush-green hills, the sun turning everything golden. Arthur leads his horse a pace ahead of Merlin’s. Even the whip-fast breeze of riding can’t keep the heat from turning their skin slick and dripping with sweat in a matter of moments.

They’re in the dead of it, now. Summer stretches both behind and ahead of them, the heat sweltering and never-ending. The land is flourishing, lively and fruitful, but the citadel’s people are miserable. Even Arthur lazes about the castle on the worst days, forgoing training once the sun breaches the mountains. Weeks ago, before he learned of Merlin’s magic, Merlin found him lying on the floor of his chambers, his cheek pressed to the stone. “’S cold,” he slurred blissfully, then he reached out and dragged Merlin down beside him so they could share the small relief together.

+

Merlin doesn’t know where they’re going, and he doesn’t ask.

Arthur navigates the forest. Merlin keeps up. They are no longer riding fast, so occasionally, Arthur will reach out and trace one of the blistered-open trees, his fingers coming away sticky and sweet with sap. The land’s magic swells when he does this, basking beneath the attention of her future king. It rises within Merlin, too; it fills his chest, lively and tender and protective.

“She likes you,” says Merlin.

Arthur turns and raises a brow. “Who?”

“Albion.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel it. Her magic.”

Arthur squints, disbelieving. “You can _feel_ Albion?”

Merlin swallows. It’s strange, speaking so candidly about this with Arthur after having kept it a secret for so long. He nods.

Arthur goes quiet. His gaze flickers away, his hand smoothing Hengroen’s mane. “Right,” he murmurs. “All-powerful sorcerer, and that. How could I forget.”

+

This part of the forest is familiar to him, Merlin realizes. They came this way, often, during Merlin’s first summer in Camelot; Arthur would wake him before the sun and they’d leave under the guise of a hunt. “I want to show you a place,” Arthur had whispered, that first time, his grin sloppy and boyish. Merlin followed him blindly, of course. He’d follow Arthur anywhere. 

There’s a spot, tucked deep into the forest, where the trees part and open to a small cold spring. The water, blue as sea glass and always cool, ripples softly at the delicate touch of skimming dragonflies. Branches dip from surrounding trees and graze the water’s surface, their leaves drifting and floating across the spring like lilypads. Around it, moss-covered rocks rise from the earth, molded and smoothed by time, cold to the touch even beneath the blistering, relentless sun. 

Merlin sees the water, first, bright and clean through the gaps in the trees. Arthur stops and dismounts Hengroen in one practiced motion. Merlin does the same. 

Arthur glances at him, his hair dark with sweat. “Take care of the horses,” he tells him, then turns and slips between the trees to the cold spring, reaching and peeling off his tunic as he goes.

Merlin does as he’s told, tying them to one of the surrounding tree trunks and letting them drink from his own supply. Their tails swish happily as Merlin strokes their backs and gathers the courage to face Arthur again.

It’s the heat that convinces him, eventually, heavy and sweltering. He nearly trips in his haste to strip and plod through the water, deliciously cold against his skin. Arthur’s swimming at the opposite end, turned away from him, reaching out and picking from the blackberry bramble at the forest's edge. Merlin swims to the middle of the spring then submerges himself entirely, letting the bracing water wash over him.

For a time, he treads water, resting his eyes and letting the sounds of the forest lull him. He hasn’t felt this content in months, the heat no longer touching him. If Arthur wasn’t upset with him, if things hadn’t changed so irrevocably between them, he could’ve preserved this moment and lived in it forever.

There’s a sound, like a branch snapping in half. Merlin’s eyes flutter open, expecting to see Arthur with a tree limb in hand or in the midst of doing something else that would explain the noise. 

Arthur isn’t there.

“Arthur?” Merlin calls. He twists his head, eyes darting around him, dragging along the water, the spring’s bank, the line of the forest. Nothing. 

His pulse jumps to his throat. “ _Arthur_?”

Only the bugs chatter back. 

He opens his mouth again, growing panicked, when suddenly there’s a hand wrapping around his ankle and he’s being tugged under, swallowed up by the water. Everything melts away; quiet, languid. Arthur’s blurry shape faces him, the flame of his golden hair shining brilliantly in the chords of rippling sunlight. Bubbles break from their skin and swirl around them like hundreds of little fish. They spend a few moments, here, suspended in this slow, liquid time.

Arthur pushes up, his lungs surely begging, and Merlin follows the light.

Merlin resurfaces, gasping. Arthur’s bright laughter echoes off of the stones.

“Fucking _prat_ ,” Merlin shouts, even though his heart is reeling. He shoves Arthur away, then splashes him for good measure, which erupts into an all-out war between them.

It was like this, the first few times Arthur brought him here. They thrashed and flopped around like wild boys, their amusement golden and endless. Only two years have passed since then, but so much has changed around them, _within_ them. Merlin hadn’t known the magnitude of their destiny, then. Now his shoulders ache, constantly, beneath its weight.

Merlin slows his splashing, then stops altogether. He sees Arthur, two years younger, wide-eyed and brazen, and aches with the memory. 

Arthur notices Merlin's reservation and stops, too, his chest heaving, the ghost of a smile still etched on his face. Even the remnants of Arthur’s joy set Merlin’s chest alight. His heartbeat is so fast, so loud, he wonders if Arthur can hear it from where he’s standing, only an arm’s span away. 

The water calms around them, shallow enough that it licks at them mid-stomach. They watch, silently, as it becomes so still it turns to a mirror, liquid glass, a reflection of the sky above them. Slowly, delicately, Arthur lifts a hand and traces one of the silky clouds, the heavens swirling easily beneath his gentle touch. 

Merlin’s eyes follow the line of his fingers, his arm, up to his shoulder: suntanned and speckled with perfect beads of spring water. Albion graces him so naturally it’s no wonder she belongs entirely to him. All her golden hills, her white-capped mountains, her meadows and sea caves and secret grottos. All her summer orchards, fully bloomed and ripe with wild color. All her lakes and ponds and streams; all her rivers, cutting through the land like veins, brimming with fish that mottle the dark water like tiny stars. All of it, everything beautiful, for him. Albion belongs to Arthur the same way he belongs to her, the same way Merlin belongs to him. Her protection is Arthur’s responsibility, and Arthur’s protection is his. This is the fate, the destiny, Merlin carries so heavily. 

He’s not told Arthur this, yet. What they’re meant to do, what they’re _going_ to do. Arthur must have some inkling of it, though, the way the land parts and embraces him so easily, the way the sky ripples beneath his fingers. 

Merlin can’t help but stare, his magic stirring, swelling, reaching out for Arthur. He’s so beautiful it’s cruel, sometimes. His eyelashes are wet and dark and clumped together, his cheeks flushed-rosy in the heat. Sun-kissed freckles dot the line of his nose, fleeting, since Merlin knows they’ll fade once the season turns. Drops of water slide past his mouth and down his chin, his throat, like nectar from an orange. Merlin’s eyes trace the movement, then flicker back up.

Arthur’s gaze drifts. Their eyes meet for a split second before Merlin’s shift away. 

“You always do that,” Arthur mutters.

“What?”

“Look away.”

Shame floods him. How’s Merlin supposed to respond to that? How’s he meant to explain the heat of Arthur’s gaze, the way it burns him?

Merlin forces himself to look up. There’s something sorrowful in Arthur’s dawn-blue eyes, in the curve of his mouth. He blinks, once, twice, then asks brokenly, “Did you really think I’d let him kill you, Merlin?”

Arthur’s hurt is a shock through Merlin, like falling through a frozen pond. Emotion crowds his chest. “No,” he says thickly. “No, I don’t think so—”

“You don’t _think_ so? Was I really so awful to you, that you thought I might turn you in? That you thought I’d be alright watching you burn?”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin shakes his head, insistent. His chest feels like it’s splitting open. “I just—I know you love your father and I know you—” he stops the thought before he says something too revealing. “I know we’ve grown close, too, and I didn’t want to make you choose. Between him and me. I didn’t want to put you through that.”

“ _That’s_ what worried you?” Arthur asks, incredulous. “You’re a sorcerer living in Camelot, my father would have you beheaded without a second thought if he found out, and somehow, you were worried about _me_?”

“I’m always worried about you,” Merlin admits, his voice as delicate as rattling leaves. 

Arthur’s anger melts into quiet despair, before, eventually, a sort of a grief-filled acceptance settles on his features. He looks down at the blue-green water, the white, gossamer clouds floating around them. Merlin’s own reflection ripples, wavers; so does Arthur’s. They stand, opposite each other, equal in height and expression. Two sides of the same coin. 

“Are there any more secrets?” Arthur asks heavily. 

Merlin looks at him. Stares at him. Haloed in the sunlight, his edges turned golden and glowing, looking every bit the marvelous king destiny’s promised him.

Something blooms, tender and careful, at the center of his chest.

There is this, too. The way his magic swells when Arthur’s eyes are on him. The way Arthur makes him ache, sometimes, as if he were nursing an internal bruise. The way he’d care for Arthur even if it wasn’t his duty. Even if it wasn't his destiny. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, insistent. 

Merlin doesn’t say anything. 

Arthur’s eyes are searching. “There is something else,” he says. “Tell me.”

Merlin’s stomach sinks. He doesn’t think he can say it. Just like his magic, there is fear in this, in his feelings, too. 

Slowly, Arthur’s expression opens up, his worry fading. Dawn breaks across his face.

“Tell me.” It’s quieter. The way the words fall from his mouth, though—it sounds like he already knows. He steps closer.

“I can’t,” Merlin says around the lump in his throat. There were times he’d catch Arthur staring at him from across the room, his eyes soft, but he never thought—he didn’t think it was like this, for Arthur, too. That when he sat in his chambers, alone, his thoughts moved to Merlin. 

“You can.” Arthur steps closer, closer, until they nearly touch. Merlin’s magic pulses at his fingertips, wanting and wanting. He’s never been more aware of the space between them. “Merlin, you can tell me,” Arthur repeats, then slowly, delicately, takes Merlin’s hand and places it on his skin, his chest, right over his heart.

Beneath his palm, Arthur’s fluttering heartbeat is just as fast, just as loud, as Merlin’s own. It feels so fragile, like the small, beating wing of a dragonfly. Merlin lolls forward, pressing their foreheads together, struck by Arthur’s nervousness.

“Tell me,” Arthur whispers, so close that his lips brush Merlin’s as he says it.

Merlin makes a noise, high in his throat, and presses forward. Arthur’s mouth catches his, slick and cool, tasting of spring water and sweet blackberries.

“Arthur,” Merlin whines, pulling back, but Arthur dips forward and swallows anything else Merlin might’ve said, humming, the sound buzzing through the both of them, white-hot and electric. Arthur’s hand comes up and cradles the back of Merlin’s head, fingers buried in his wet hair, dragging his tongue along Merlin’s bottom lip until their mouths open, hungry, desperate, beneath each other’s.

He does not know how long they stand there, drinking each other in. Merlin’s magic swells, rises to his hands, to his throat, so strong he fears it might spill out of him. 

Merlin pulls back, breathless. Arthur’s eyes blink open, heavy and full. There is a moment, so quick it happens between one heartbeat and the next, where the sunlight catches him just so and Arthur’s eyes flicker a swimming gold. He shifts his head, blue again, and tilts toward Merlin like he cannot help it, like some divine force is tugging them closer together. Like a moon to a planet. No, no. A planet to a star.

Merlin kisses him.

+

Later, they lay beside each other on the spring’s bank, drying themselves out in the sun. Arthur’s arm is thrown across his eyes, the movement of his chest slow, listless. Merlin thinks him asleep until he groans bitterly.

“It’s too fucking hot,” he complains. “I’m ready for the season to turn.”

Merlin hums, agreeing, watching the snail’s pace movement of the clouds.

It’s quiet, again, for a moment. Nothing but the chirps of bugs, the rattling of leaves.

“Could you change it?” Arthur asks.

Merlin turns to him. Arthur stares at the patch of sky above them.

“The season?” Merlin asks.

Arthur nods.

“I—I don’t know. Maybe.” Merlin sits up. “I’ve never tried to. I guess I’d have to change the weather, or speed up time, or—or move the stars themselves.” He stops, letting the words sit between them. Arthur doesn’t move, his face washed in the light. Merlin’s love rises to his throat.

“Would you like me to move the stars for you, sire?” he asks.

Arthur turns and stares at him, like he expects Merlin to take it back, to admit he truly isn’t powerful enough to do something so huge. Merlin says nothing. After a few moments, Arthur looks back at the sky.

“Maybe later,” he replies, his mouth quirking into a soft half-grin.

+

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to follow me somewhere else, i'm on [tumblr](https://spacefilm.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> would love to hear your thoughts on this little fic. it's my first for bbc merlin, so be gentle 🤍


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